A strange melody cuts the brittle stillness of our stage, a long-forgotten theatre. This unwelcome intrusion stirs the dust of the fall, sweeping it back out to rest upon the end.

The moths in the crumbling curtains have moved on; they no longer await recognition. Their black eyes have always been devoid of faith in our kind.

The candles sag in the pallor of the webs upon unlit chandeliers, clinging to the ceiling, grasping at former splendor.

The chairs, the seating in which life was retained, a sullen dullness has infested. This gray of such remorse retains only a widow's grief.

Something trudges up the rotted staircase, her feet making hollow sounds over the wood, dragging the dead weight of trophy wings.

Upon the stage resonates this ghost of an angel, this failure that fought against embracing life. She is the remains of what was, yet of that which could never be again.

How lonely it must be to be of heaven, yet to not know a mother's love or embrace. The phrase "daughter of none" must have been what blinded herwith agony.

She remains sovereign and beautiful as she plays to this audience of emptiness upon a stretched, tuneless violin. She stitches patches of memory together in the form of notes, a song.

Her unearthly movements twitch and jerk as if she is possessed by something higher. Where does the grace of the angels sleep?

Her bones creak as she opens her throat to sing in an octave of unrecognizable melody.

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound..."

How could one so lovely scream like this? I'll grasp for anything for understanding, sprawled on the floor of the concept.

Her pale skin stretches unnaturally as she smiles blindly upon the age of grandeur laid before her, the golden, lit chandeliers, the velvet cushions, but above all, the others.

Oh, but don't be fooled in her fantasy, she has no eyes, no life. Ghosts never truly see. She cannot feel her wings, as more dust settles upon them, slowly ripping them from her.

Nor does she realize her image of purity is deformed. She drags along a glorious bat wing that reaches to far more places than the one made of beauty.

Her intricate frame bears the burden of being last. Her fingers ache from the way they clench the violin in desperation only the young can portray with such intensity. They'd be bleeding from the truth of the desolation, if she had proof of life.

One ghastly note of otherworldly pitch pierces the stillness, then her fingers stop, and her vocals cease. The familiar haunting silence breeds through the world that has moved on.

She smiles, as if pleased with something as she takes her grand bow to no one, to nothing. When will she understand she is forgotten?

Lovingly, as a mother looks upon a child, she bends the last remaining pieces of her violin, her link to this world, until they snap, distorted. Smiling, she presses the memories tight against her breast one last time.

With the final broken pieces she marks the end of life. Disconnected, she watches as our own world finally breaks, and falls away, splintering into precise faults.

The pieces cascade in a haze like rain through her body, but she cannot feel it.

She does not belong. She does not exist.